My Aunt Leva died at the age of 103 back in 2009. When a reporter interviewed Aunt Leva a few years ago, the reporter asked Leva what was the best thing about living so long, Aunt Leva piped up “No peer pressure!”

Aunt Leva was the youngest of the fourteen Roberts children. Her father, Maston, travelled often as foreman of a logging group, and her mother, Lucy, ran a tight ship to keep the home in order. Every younger child worked with an older child on chores, and the older child was responsible for the younger one. They worked hard “Up on Birch”, and they loved each other and had lots of fun.

Aunt Leva died in February of 2008. A friend who wrote poetry asked if she could read a poem at the funeral that she had written for her friend.

Belongings

by Jeanne Light

She slipped, quietly away, Going as she came, on a Mid-Winter’s Day. Leaving behind her earthly store, The “simple” things she’ll need no more. Possessions remaining her heart treasured. Memories rich, beyond all measure. A Bible she had marked, a recipe book, An old fashioned apron she wore, Some clothes, some shoes, a coat or two, some photographs of friends she knew. Souvenirs of numerous travels, an old housecoat that had started to ravel. Crochet hooks, a perfume spray, Daddy’s candlesticks, a serving tray. Some books she read, a rocking chair, canning jars from her garden fare. A family ring, a necklace heart, held close kin even when part. Knitting needles, her art unfurled, made Christmas gifts for her boys and girls.Much used iron skillets, some pie plates, too. Cause Mom loved pie – and choice country food. A quilt, some goods – for making dresses, a mop, a broom, for cleaning up messes. Her sewing machine, a thimble, some thread. A worn rolling pin, an old antique bed. A spinning wheel, some nice, warm socks. Her pen, her desk, her tithing box. Eyeglasses, makeup, a gold wedding ring. All of these – her much loved things. These that added, part by part, pieced together her beautiful heart. She left them behind – all “tucked away”. These treasures she cherished so much. They’re all laid aside – awaiting a return – missing her gentle touch. But one “thing” she left here I can’t lay aside, “It’s” present continually – Waiting behind like the rest she loved. “It” won’t pack away…”It’s ME!

Leva’s life was busy and creative. She was creating quilts, blankets, things for her family and friends. She was always working on something in the kitchen – she was a great cook. Leva used her talents to raise her children and to volunteer to the church.

What belongings will your family see after you have passed? A long list of sports equipment, every beauty product known to man? A kitchen in the latest fashion but never used and is not the heart of the home? What kind of books? How big the TV is? Not a Bible in the house? No evidence of family together? What do you want them to see when they collect your things?

If you would happen to take 19 South off Interstate 79 in West Virginia, looking for Skipper or Mitzi Roberts, You might stop at the local store and ask where they live. Likely you would hear, “Oh, theys up on Birch”.

Birch River is a town, but it is also a river that runs through two mountains, with very few flat spots. The road is a two-lane narrow curvy drive.

Birch River is really a stream in most places, but there is a beautiful waterfall and pond in one area that people go to swim. There used to be a mill at that waterfall.

I have many memories of summers at Birch, staying with my sister, my mom, my grandma and my Aunt Ruth in my Uncle Brant’s hunting shed, which had a kitchen and a bedroom, and was made of metal and heavy cardboard. Really. We got water from a well, and pretty much roughed it. We used the outhouse, and most of the time there was a big snake curled up next to it. No one wanted to go to the bathroom after dark! My sister Becky and I would play in the icy water for hours. Sometimes we found colored rocks and made “indian facepaint”. Other times we would float things down the river as a contest to see whose item got to the “finish line” first. People around the area would hear that we were there, and many relatives would stop by to visit. I loved to listen to their stories.

My grandmother, one of fourteen children, grew up on Birch (see A Tribute). Her father was a logger; in fact he was the head of a logging crew. My grandmother taught in a one-room school house similar to “Christy”, if you have seen the movie or read the book. They called their home the “old home place”.

All of the fourteen children have passed away; the last sister died a few years ago at the age of 103.

Their home is no longer there, but Uncle Glen and Aunt Ruby Roberts’ house has become the “old home place”. Glen and Ruby have also passed away, but the home has been used by several of their relatives.

Every year, Roberts relatives come to the “old home place” for a reunion. There is a long table loaded with great country cooking, impromptu music played by relatives, and people in lawn chairs, talking and sharing pictures. The older relatives share stories with younger people about life on Birch. The children play in the stream. Sometimes we make the trek up to cemetery on the mountain and visit the graves of those long gone but not forgotten.

After the reunion ends, we like to drive up and down the road that runs next to Birch River, reminiscing about our summers there and seeing our favorite spots.

This weekend, my mom, my sister Becky, her granddaughter Kennedie and I will go the the Roberts’ reunion. We will enjoy the food, music, memories shared, and a drive through the area to see places remembered. We may drive up to the cemetery, although in this season there are a lot of snakes there.

So, if anyone asks where we are next weekend, you can just tell them, “Oh, theys up on Birch”.

As a homeschooling family, we always taught the true meaning of holidays, especially those that have turned into a barbecue or big sale on mattresses. The week before Memorial Day, we discussed the origin of Memorial Day, which began as Decoration Day to honor Civil War casualties. It became a holiday where we remember all casualties of all wars involving the United States.

We talked about how many people visit national cemeteries and volunteers put flags on all the graves.

We talked about how many people honor the fallen soldiers with ceremonies.

I felt sure that my girls understood the true meaning of Memorial Day.

The Saturday morning of Memorial Day weekend, Katie, who was about four at the time, accompanied my husband to get doughnuts for a Saturday morning treat. A liquor store was located next to the doughnut shop, and it was very busy. My husband commented how sad it was that people were preparing for the holiday by buying a lot of beer.

The next day, we went to church and put Katie in her Sunday School room before getting settled in the sanctuary.

When the teacher of the Sunday School got all of the children quiet and ready to listen, she asked the class what they thought was the meaning of Memorial Day. Katie confidently spoke up first and said, “Well, some people drink a lot of beer!”

Last year at this time my husband and I were at the Final Four NCAA Tournament, which was held in Atlanta. In between games we did some sightseeing. My favorite attraction was visiting the little apartment where Margaret Mitchell wrote the epic Gone With The Wind. I have always been fascinated by this book and the movie. I first saw the movie in an old movie theatre that was as elegant as any theatre for the arts. I was given a copy of the novel during junior high, and I read it through every summer vacation. Not sure why I developed that “tradition”, but I did.

Margaret Mitchell’s apartment was tiny, and has been left pretty much as the time that Margaret lived there. They have developed a small museum in the back of her apartment. Margaret lived there with her second husband, John Marsh.

Margaret was in the process of developing a career as a journalist when complications from a broken ankle ended her career. To alleviate her boredom at home, John Marsh brought Margaret ten library books each day, and she read all ten by the end of the day. When she had read every book in the library, John brought home a typewriter and told her to write her own book.

Margaret wrote the end of the book first, and then added the other chapters in no particular order. She wrote most of the book in three years. Margaret kept her chapters in manila folders in her closet. Eventually there were seventy chapters. Margaret really didn’t want anyone to see them, but a friend convinced her to show her manuscript to a publisher. She revised and completed her novel, and Gone With The Wind was born. The book was published in 1936. It contained 1,037 pages and sold for three dollars.

When the book came out, and later the movie, Margaret Mitchell became a celebrity overnight. She did not enjoy the spotlight, but stayed at home most of the time, saying she just wanted to be Mrs. Marsh.

Gone With The Wind was Margaret Mitchell’s only novel. While crossing the street with her husband, heading to see a movie, a speeding taxi hit her. Margaret died four days later at the age of 49. She was a tiny woman, only about five feet tall, but she left a great legacy in Gone With The Wind.

The day we visited was a beautiful day, so we then went to Oakland Cemetery, where many important people have been buried, including Margaret Mitchell Marsh.

We headed to our hotel room to get ready for the game, and then we found a real treat. There is a restaurant near the stadium called Aunt Pittypat’s Porch. In the book Gone With The Wind, Scarlett would visit her Aunt Pittypat in Atlanta, and Scarlett’s aunt made only her best dishes when she had company. The restaurant serves many of the recipes that Aunt Pittypat would have prepared. A favorite appetizer is fried green tomatoes. The fried chicken is delicious, and the muffins, biscuits, and cornbread melt into your mouth. There are a wide variety of entrees. They are all served with a Southern Salad Sideboard, and blackeyed peas and collard greens. The iced tea is truly southern. If anyone should have any room left, there is a large selection of cakes, pies, bread puddings, and cobbler. I am getting hungry just writing this!

If you get a chance to travel to Atlanta, it would easily take a week to see all that the city has to offer. This is just one adventure into the life of an author I admire. It was chosen because my husband and I love books and history. We thoroughly enjoyed our visit, and plan to go back sometime to see more. But as Scarlett says, “I can’t think about that today, I’ll think about that tomorrow.”